Shanghai 1937
by cloviskarling
Summary: The story of eight magical girls living in Shanghai, on the brink of the second Sino-Japanese war.
1. Chapter 1

"By God, so you're a griffin!"

"I beg your pardon?"

Lisa squirmed in her chair. At high noon, the Majestic Café was crammed with people, and the notoriously hot and humid Shanghai summer added to her feeling of being broiled alive. Furthermore her companion's somewhat – she hunted for the word – _eccentric_ manners did not help in the least.

"A griffin," Cecily said with a condescending, almost supercilious air, "is what we Shanghailanders call a newcomer to this Chinese Babylon." She said _we Shanghailanders_ with the sort of laconic drawl usually reserved for pronouncing titles of high nobility.

"Shanghailanders?" Lisa murmured.

"Oh, veterans, don't you know." Cecily thumped her chest. "Old China hands."

"Ah," Lisa nodded her head meekly. There was an awkward lull.

Cecily was, as far as Lisa could tell, a friendly enough, if rather forthright, girl; a little arrogant to be sure, but she did seem to have the requisite sophistication to back up that arrogance. It was Cecily who arranged the whole meeting: the letter of introduction; the rendezvous at the café; even having the choicest table reserved. And whenever she talked of Shanghai, she did so in a tone of jaded contempt born only of long and thorough experience.

As if she read her thoughts – another habit of Cecily's that Lisa had come to find unnerving – the girl cracked a lopsided grin and asked, "But enough about me. How are you finding Shanghai so far?"

"It's a bit crowded, isn't it?" Lisa replied without thinking, and immediately felt appalled at how inane that sounded. "But it's very interesting," she added quickly. "I mean, being in China and all – five thousand years of history and culture…"

Cecily was glancing out at the thronging street. "Shanghai's not China," she interrupted absently. "It's many things, but it's not China. China is Peking and Chungking and Xi'an and maybe even Canton, but Shanghai? Oh, no." She paused. "Besides, the so-called five thousand years – and it's nowhere that long, believe me – of history and culture, it's all utter rot. Here, watch."

Emerging somewhere out of a gutter, a gnarled and wrinkled Chinese woman hobbled to their table and held out a trembling hand. Lisa recoiled involuntarily when she saw her feet – abnormally small and, where the straw shoes had fallen apart, black with grime and pus. She was about to reach for her purse when Cecily laid a hand on her arm, called loudly for a nearby waiter and jabbed a thumb at the beggar.

The waiter shouted something in Mandarin at the old woman, who cringed back and shrank silently into the gutter. "Terribly sorry about this," the waiter told them with a slight bow. He mixed up his _l's_ and _r's_ , as every Chinese Lisa had met so far did; otherwise his English was passable.

"Beggars are a dime a dozen, you see." Cecily was looking at her with faintly mocking eyes. "Literally!" She laughed. "Give one a dime and a dozen swarm over. Let this be your first lesson of Shanghai! No good deed goes unpunished here."

"I'm afraid you make Shanghai out like it's a rather nasty place," Lisa ventured.

"Oh, it's not all bad." Cecily's face took on a reflective shade. "A city of forty-eight-storey skyscrapers built on twenty-four layers of hell. A Chinese playwright wrote that," she explained. "They have a way of turning phrases prettily, these Chinese, when they're not smoking opium or trying to weasel you out of your last penny."

Another awkward lull. Lisa wondered desperately if she would ever find something to say that did not sound desperately commonplace to her companion. At length the only topic she could think of was talking shop. "You wanted to meet me to discuss how things are done here…" she began.

"Aha. Business it is!" Cecily leaned forward with a sudden lunge. She reached into her handbag and after some rummaging pulled out a large map of the city, which she spread open on the table. "Look here. This is Shanghai. You can see it's partitioned into four zones."

"I only see three," Lisa said hesitantly.

Cecily sighed. "You're supposed to see five. Pay attention. This is where we are: the International Settlement. The Settlement is practically run by us Brits and you Americans, so the only two magical girls allowed here are always a Limey and a Yank."

"What if an Italian or a, a Dane were to…"

"We have an understanding with the local Incubator not to induct any Continental in the Settlement. And if by chance one landed here, well, it's too bad for her, but she's either kicked off to the rural areas or," she drew a line across her throat with her thumb. "Hasn't happened for ages, though. In fact, we haven't had a magical girl arriving by boat for nearly a decade until you turned up."

"Oh." Lisa suddenly felt an irrational urge to apologize.

"Don't worry about it. The game's pretty fair here. Shanghai is almost too good for a magical girl." Cecily smirked as if she had made a joke. "South of us," she traced her finger across the map, "across Avenue Edward VII, is the French Concession. Two magical girls run the show there: Marianne Labelle and Tamara Nochitskaya."

"Nochitskaya?"

"A White Russian girl. The daughter of a captain in the Tsarist army. Poor thing." When Lisa still looked bewildered, Cecily sighed. "After the Reds took over Russia, everyone there who didn't want to live in, oh, hell on earth, packed up and fled. As a result a sizeable White Russian community congregated in Shanghai, particularly the French Concession – every Russian of decent breeding speaks French, you see. By now the Russians are looking to outnumber the Frogs." She chuckled. "The men usually work as mercenaries, the women prostitutes; those who don't do either, beg."

"And we allow that? I mean…" Lisa stuttered, flustered.

"White prestige. I know. Not good having a white man begging where the yellow little Chinks can see. Even if it's only those semi-Asiatic Ruskies." She shrugged. "Can't be helped, though. There are simply too many of them, and they're simply too poor. No good dwelling on it. Enough with the Frogs! Let's move on.

"Remember how I said the International Settlement is a British-American business? Not entirely true. The Hongkou district," she pointed, "is called 'Little Tokyo' because of all the Japanese living there. As a Great Power with significant interests in China, they have their own magical girls, even though Hongkou is, de jure, part of the Settlement. Tanaka Kyouko and Yamashita Kaede. We don't bother them, they don't bother us."

"Isn't Hongkou a little small for two magical girls?"

"It is. However, after the Shanghai Incident back in '32," the edge of Cecily's mouth tugged downward; a shadow flitted across her face, "the Japanese girls annexed the Chapei district to the north. So now that's part of their demesne as well."

"Chapei?" Even though Lisa had been in Shanghai for less than a week she had already heard of the notorious warzone. "I thought it's a wasteland."

"Used to be. But after the Japs and the Chinks trashed each other silly in Chapei and no one wants to live there anymore, the Chinese Government decided it can host the refugees from the Northeast. At the present moment Chapei is a humanitarian crisis overflowing with displaced peasants from Manchuria, where the Japs pulled their latest land-grab."

"The Mukden Incident." Lisa remembered listening five years ago to news of the Japanese invasion on the radio, and asking her father what the League of Nations was going to do about it. Her father, a former diplomat, had chuckled bitterly and did not reply.

"So you do know something." Cecily smiled to take the sting off her words. "Yes, the Mukden Incident, when the Japs annexed Manchuria, kicked out the warlord and propped up a puppet Emperor." She shook her head wryly. "That idiot Henry probably thinks the Japs will help him recover his throne."

"In any case, large-scale settlement of Japanese farmers in Manchuria meant that many local Chinese were driven out. Some of them – and since this is China 'some' really means 'hordes' – ended up tramping to Shanghai, where they are fenced inside Chapei and left to stew in their own filth. Despair, hatred, madness and grief abounds – a veritable haven for witches, as I think you're coming to realize. The Japanese girls have gotten a piece of real estate overflowing with milk and honey. So to speak. And they're guarding it jealously."

"But the Chinese girls don't complain?"

"Ah, the Chinese." Cecily's grin widened. "We come to them at last. The two Chinese girls have their hunting ground in the Native City." Lisa's eyes widened. The Native City – Shanghai as it was before being opened up to the international community – was barely a fifth the size of the Settlement, and did not look adequate to supporting a single magical girl. "Having, as you can see, the least resources, they are also the weakest; so as much as they complain there is nothing they can do about their lot.

"But they do have a lifeline," Cecily continued. "There is a free-for-all zone in the Badlands, which is everywhere not covered by the Settlement, the Concession, Chapei and the Native City. We have a strictly unspoken and non-binding gentlemen's agreement to hunt in our respective zones first, and only venture into the Badlands if we absolutely, desperately need a grief seed. You can imagine how well the system works."

"Badly?"

"Terribly! And that concludes my exposition." Cecily rolled up the map with a flourish. "Hey, what say we go witch-hunting together? First time's my treat. You're a griffin. I can help you with directions, tips on good locations, that sort of thing."

Lisa let out a breath she did not realize she had been holding. "Thank you. I would be glad to."

"Excellent." Cecily stood up and ambled nonchalantly towards the exit. A nearby waiter frowned, started towards her and opened his mouth. Abruptly his eyes clouded. He staggered a little, shook his head, and shuffled unsteadily towards the counter.

"Excuse me." Lisa had to run a little to catch up. "There's a question I've been meaning to ask."

"Fire away."

"My…predecessor. How did she…I mean, what happened to her?"

Cecily stopped walking. "Here in Shanghai it's generally considered not quite polite to ask that sort of thing," she said lightly, not turning her face.

"I see. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it." Cecily smiled at her, and for a brief instant Lisa thought there was a trace of sadness in her smile. Then: "Follow me," Cecily said, and stepped out of the café.

Taking one last look at the café, Lisa chased after Cecily, and together, side by side, they walked into the city of Shanghai.


	2. Chapter 2

"When Britain fir-ir-ir-ir-irst, at Heaven's command…"

Shanghai, Lisa knew, was the busiest and most populous port in the Orient. Compared to the rural Midwestern town she grew up in, it was to be expected that hunting witches here would require much less discretion from magical girls.

Even so, she expected the spectacle of an unchaperoned girl marching down the Bund, a glowing, gem-like object aloft in her hands while singing at the top of her lungs, to be an uncommon enough sight to merit at least _some_ attention from the streams of passers-by around.

"Aro-oh-oh-oh-oh- _ose_ out of the ah-ah-ah-azure waves!"

No-one, however, seemed to notice Cecily at all.

That was not exactly true. A little pocket of space surrounded Cecily wherever she walked: the crowd parted way before her, and joined up behind. Yet no one looked at Cecily: rather, they looked through her, or past her, or beyond her – in any case never directly at her. But they gave way all the same.

"This was the charter, the charter of the land!"

A rickshaw driver clattered up behind them at furious speed. Lisa looked at Cecily nervously; the girl returned her glance with a wink. When the rickshaw was almost upon them the driver suddenly made a sharp turn right. He barged into a pair of overweight elderly ladies and his passenger tumbled out. There was an angry shriek, an unladylike curse, and a torrent of broken pidgin English as the rickshaw driver tried to convey how abjectly sorry he was to someone who was apparently a Sikh policeman. A hullaballoo rose as the usual Shanghai crowd of busybodies, gossipers and pickpockets quickly gathered around the scene.

Cecily had not broken a stride. In fact, she did not spare so much as a glance at the small commotion she caused.

"And guardian an-an-an-an-angels sang this – oho!"

Her soul gem started pulsing faster. Cecily tilted her head appraisingly. "This way, I think," she announced abruptly, and veered into a smaller street branching off the Bund.

The next fifteen minutes was to Lisa a confused whirl of walking under run-down tenements, along dirty cracked pavements that winded narrowly in unexpected directions, and past squat, filthy hovels shabby and sinister in equal measure, as Cecily tried to hunt down the witch, and she tried to follow. There were a couple of times when they almost cornered it – once they thought they had even glimpsed the outlines of a barrier – but each time the witch just managed to elude them.

"This is a tricky one," Cecily muttered grimly. "Worry not, old sport, we'll have him yet. Only," she added in a pensive tone, "we've been heading awfully south for quite a while now."

"Have we?" Lisa's head was still spinning from the convoluted route they had taken. "I'm afraid I'm quite lost."

"You haven't seen the worst yet. There are some places in Shanghai no doubt overflowing with grief seeds, where I would not even dream of stepping foot…But warnings can come later. There!"

Lisa looked at the direction Cecily was pointing, and saw what seemed to be a grimy Chinese-style inn at the end of the alley. "What does that say?" she asked, squinting at a tattered banner that drooped rather forlornly from the second storey. "Oh, I'm sorry, of course you won't know Chinese…"

"The House of Ten Thousand Dreams. I can read a few words. Well," Cecily swept her hand grandly to the entrance, "shall we?"

* * *

The sudden burst of light and noise made Fang Sen groan in distress and drop his pipe. His hand felt around for it, but without success, so he forced his eyelids to open.

To his surprise two young female foreign devils wandered into his field of vision. The elder one made some remark in their barbarous devil-speak to her brethren, which caused her eyes to fill with pity and revulsion. Fang Sen's heart swelled in shame and anger. He wanted to shout, _It was you foreign devils who brought this here in the first place!_ , but by then he had found his pipe and his mouth was busy sucking in the next draught of the Great Smoke.

After conferring briefly, each foreign devil for some reason walked over to a side of the wall with a shining gem in her hand, and slowly, methodically, combed the length of the room.

As far as Fang Sen knew this was perfectly normal foreign devil behaviour, and he just wished they would finish their business quickly and leave him alone. However, when they approached the Chinese altar at the end of the room their gems shone more brightly than ever, and they got back together for further discussion.

Fang Sen did not like the altar. All the smokers tried to avoid lying near it, because of its squat, sinister look and because it was prone to emanating inexplicable drafts of cold air. But the two devils approached the altar with considerable excitement. One of them thrust her gem at it and – here Fang Sen nearly dropped his pipe again – a swirling whirlpool of rippling darkness encircled by strange symbols gaped open on the wall above.

Ribbons of light now swathed the two foreign devils. When it faded, their accoutrements had changed. The elder one now wore a gleaming white tunic and held a trident in her hand; the younger one was dressed in uniform, not unlike the ones Fang Sen had seen at military parades in the foreign concessions; and across her shoulder was slung what he recognised, from the same parades, to be a machine gun.

The two devils walked into the black circle and disappeared; then the circle shrunk in size and also vanished.

Fang Sen stared at his pipe with deep respect. "That's strong stuff they put in there," he muttered as he sank back onto his mattress, where he quickly proceeded to forget the incident entirely.

* * *

The witch's lair was pitch black, save for a smoky cloud of unearthly white light. In front of the light floated a clumpy, bulging red sac. From the distance it looked like a cushion, or a distended heart, or even –

"A _handbag_?"

Cecily snickered. "Not quite. It's a purse. A scarlet purse, in fact. Our witch has poetic pretensions."

In hushed whispers they decided on their strategy. Cecily, the close-combat specialist, was to close in for melee; Lisa, with her Gatling, would provide covering fire and suppress any counterattacks.

"Just like how it was done back in the Great War." Cecily's cheeks were flushed and her eyes held a dangerous predatory gleam. "Jolly good, old bean! Tally-ho!"

With a loud whoop Cecily launched herself at the witch. The witch swivelled ponderously towards her, and the air echoed with a thin, mournful whine that grated at Lisa's heart. Gritting her teeth, Lisa brought her machine gun to bear and opened fire.

Thick strings shot out of the purse towards Cecily. Most of them were shredded by Lisa's gunfire while Cecily easily pirouetted past the remaining few. She reached the monster and slashed with her trident; a wound opened up on the side and black, jelly-like globules spilled out.

One of them fell near Lisa, spraying her with a sticky, sweet-smelling goo. Lisa swayed, and for an instance she was five again, sitting beside Mother on the bed, making her laugh as she mimicked Father's attempts to cook in the kitchen.

Shuddering, Lisa forced herself back to consciousness. She shook off the goo and looked around.

Her friend was less fortunate. Encased by one of the black globules, Cecily was tied by the purse-strings and being dragged towards the open red purse. Lisa tried to move, but some strings had snaked up her ankles and held her fast to the ground. She could only watch, helpless, as an unconscious Cecily was drawn closer and closer to the gaping mouth of the witch.

"I say we let the roastbeef be."

"Better the devil we know, my princess."

Two lights flashed, white and red, and suddenly Cecily was free of the strings and falling. She dropped onto Lisa, which caused the large goo globule around her to splatter everywhere…

 _It was night at the Bund. Two girls walked hand in hand along the riverfront; one talked animatedly as she pointed towards the distance while the other – could it be_ Cecily _? – watched her sideways with a secret smile_

…and Cecily was shaking herself awake with an angry growl, "That was _private_!" that took Lisa a moment to realise was directed at the witch.

Cecily sprang at the witch, which was now crumbling under the blows of the two new magical girls, and joined in their attack. The assault, however, was hindered by their need to avoid the globules, which the witch was shedding in profusion; meanwhile the purse was wriggling towards the strange white light.

"Too many goo!" the red girl shouted. "The witch, she is getting away!"

"I'll handle it!" Lisa called.

As the other girls sprang back, Lisa focused and tapped into her reserves of magic. Her machine gun transformed into an artillery emplacement, which delivered a long and relentless barrage that tore into the witch. For an instance it seemed as though the tattered remnants of the purse would reach the light, but at the last moment the cloth ripped and frayed and the witch was no more.

Black globules everywhere started drying up. From the largest clump a grief seed dropped towards the earth. Out of reflex Lisa stretched her arm.

A hand snatched it away. It was the pretty girl in white. "Typical American. Comes into the fight at last moment, thinks she saves the day."

"Give it here, Labelle." Cecily walked up next to Lisa. "The witch was ours."

"Was she?" All around them the witch's barrier was failing and the real world reasserting its outline. They were standing on the roof of a row of apartments, close to a broad and busy thoroughfare. "See where you are, roastbeef."

Looking behind her, Lisa saw a four-storey tower, gleaming in the light of the setting sun. "That's…the Great World arcade, isn't it? So that must be Avenue Edward VII and we are…" she looked at the sun to her right, "south of it. Oh!"

Cecily folded her arms. "We found the witch in our territory."

"But the witch crossed to our territory. Also, if you remember," the French girl sneered, "we saved you and your new pet American. But, of course, what should your perfidious ilk know of gratitude?"

Cecily adjusted her grip on the trident. The French girl laid a hand casually on the hilt of her lance.

"Now, now, Marianne." The girl in red – _that must be Tamara_ , Lisa thought – walked between the two. She bent down and murmured something in French to Marianne, who glared at her. Tamara grinned, clasped Marianne's closed hand and gently prised it open. She took the grief seed and tossed it to Lisa. "The spoils go to the conqueror, no? Please pardon Marianne. She is a nice girl, mainly."

Marianne snarled at Tamara, turned her back on all of them, and stalked off. Tamara gave a helpless shrug, smiled apologetically, and hurried off after her.

"Now I feel like a cad," Cecily remarked wryly when they were out of earshot. "They needed that seed far more than us."

"Why would that be?"

"Oh, theirs is a long and a sad tale." Cecily sighed. "Too long and too sad, certainly, to go into at the present. I shall be taking my leave now – no, the grief seed is yours, I won't think of sharing it – here's my address," she handed Lisa a piece of paper, "I live in a hotel; if I happen to be away when you call leave a word by the concierge and I'll get in touch. Good evening!"

"Good – evening."

And then Lisa was alone in the cool dusk air. High above, the first stars began to glimmer in the twilit summer sky.


	3. Chapter 3

_Knock, knock._

Tamara groaned. Her eyes were gummy and stuck together. Her throat burnt. _Dear God, not already…?_

She swept her hand over the ground and brushed against something cold and hard. _Aha_. She gripped the bottle, lifted it – _too light_ – brought it to her mouth and tilted it as far back as it could go.

Nothing. With an immense effort she cracked open an eyelid. Empty. She tried to put it back on the floor, but the bottle fell from her nerveless hand and shattered on the ground.

 _Pound! Pound! Pound!_

Feeling desperately around the shards of glass, she managed to locate another bottle and sighed with relief. This one had some weight. She swallowed the vodka and immediately the world around her changed. The early morning sunshine no longer felt like lances of light piercing her skull; now it was mellow and warm. The birdsong lost its jarring, discordant note and began to take on the semblance of a melody. Even the person knocking on the door...

"Open up at once, you useless Russian, before I set this rotting plank of wood on fire!"

Tamara swept a hand at the broken bottle pieces. They skidded, slowly at first but with increasing speed, into a straw sack at the corner of her room. It was already more than half-filled, mostly also with broken bottles. _Damn. I'll have to get another one soon_. She stood, stretched, and padded, gingerly and barefoot, towards the door.

"Open the door, or I swear this hovel will _burn!_ "

"Don't be ridiculous." The door leaned dangerously on its hinge as Tamara pushed it open. "The whole place's a brewery. One little spark here and the explosion will take you and half the street with it." Then she repeated herself in French because of course her visitor knew no Russian.

"You reek of alcohol." Standing before Tamara was a girl who just came up to her shoulder. Marianne had fair golden hair that fell to her waist and the clearest, bluest eyes that Tamara had ever seen. Her lips were soft, pink and, at the moment, twisted in a grimace of disgust. "You Russians are revolting."

"Come now, princess." Tamara noticed she was swaying slightly and tried to stop. "I admit that I am not, at the moment, occupying the pinnacle of fortune, but surely that hardly makes me representative of so haughty and ancient a monarchy as the Romanov throne and empire!..." She had to stop in midflow when a wave of nausea seized her, bent her over and made her empty most of last night's dinner – _mostly vodka_ , she noted with wry relief even as she retched painfully – onto the floor. "Ah, pardon me..."

Gentle arms held her shoulders, and a cool fresh scent enveloped her. She heaved shuddering against Marianne's chest before standing shakily upright. "I'm fine, I'm fine, don't worry…"

Marianne was looking at her anxiously. "Couldn't you use your soul gem?"

Tamara twisted her lips and took her soul gem, a tear-drop pendant set on a silk thread, out from her undershirt. Marianne drew a sharp breath and half-stretched a hand toward it, then stopped, as if afraid it would crack at the slightest touch.

"No. Not yet. Not completely," Tamara muttered. "But not long now," in response to the unvoiced question in Marianne's eyes.

"Then we'd better hurry," Marianne said.

"If it's not too late," and although this time Tamara did not repeat herself in French she thought Marianne understood anyway.

* * *

Their first port of call was the _Fallen Eagle_ , a seedy bar not far from Tamara's flat, which offered, according to the semi-legible scrawl on the board beside the entrance, taxi dances with "grand duchesses, princesses and imperial concubines", as well as discreet rooms for patrons to rest in private after dancing. It was Tamara's favourite haunt because she once worked there. "If you counted all the girls who went in and out of this place in my time," she remarked to Marianne as they slipped in, "you'd fill the Russian section of the _Almanach de Gotha_ twice over."

"They weren't wrong in your case," Marianne replied without thinking.

"Even a broken clock is right twice a day," Tamara laughed.

The _Fallen Eagle_ did not disappoint. They found the latest witch to infest the place, a pair of legs tucked under a short black skirt, surrounded by faceless mannequins endlessly waltzing to cheap sentimental music.

"Tacky." Marianne touched her soul gem lightly and a silver radiance enveloped her. When it faded, she was armoured in a pure white cuirass emblazoned with three golden lilies. A shimmery roan horse nuzzled her shoulder.

"But apropos." Tamara wore a long grey greatcoat edged in red over the scarlet tunic of the Chevalier Guards. She unsheathed her shashka and gave it an experimental whirl. "Let's make this quick, princess."

Leaping onto her mount Marianne led a charge towards the witch, scattering and trampling down the familiars in her path. She couched her lance to pierce the witch's knee at the point of impact and brought it crashing onto the ground.

As the witch tried to rise, Tamara fell onto it, hacking and slashing at the flailing limbs until they began to crumble. A few mannequins attempted to interpose themselves between the combatants, but Tamara gestured at them impatiently and the mannequins froze into blocks of ice, fell onto the ground and shattered.

"Keep them off my back, will you?"

"Doing my best! Up, Veillantif!" The roan reared and trampled its hoofs on a mannequin that was crawling to its fallen mistress. Marianne's longsword took care of another about to leap across, bisecting it at the waist. She was about to strike down a third when the world around her shivered and started to fade. "Already done?"

"Yes." Tamara stood over the spot where the remnants of the witch was dissolving into the air. She bent and plucked out the grief seed. "Here we are. Marianne, would you like to…"

"Hurry up and use it, for the love of God." Marianne looked at Tamara's soul gem anxiously as the Russian girl transferred some of her curse onto the grief seed. "It's…brighter now than before, isn't it?"

"A little." Tamara tossed the contaminated seed back onto the ground and contemplated it thoughtfully. "With luck this will hatch into a new witch soon. If the Incubator does not find it first."

"If that red-eyed albino furball interferes I'll skin it alive."

* * *

The girls subsequently went along Rue Lafayette to the St Marie Hospital. Usually they could count on a witch infesting the hospital's large Isolation annexe, where the terminally ill wait to die. This time, however, their soul gems led them past the hospital compound to the neighbouring Sisters Cemetery. A drizzle was beginning to fall as they made their way into the sea of silent grey crosses.

They found the witch hiding in a forgotten corner of the graveyard, where headstones were cracked and overrun with lichens. It took the form of a woman dressed and veiled in black, cradling what looked like a deformed baby in her arms. As they closed in, the irregular sobbing sounds it emitted turned into a piercing wail, and from the ground skeletal hands clawed out to rip and tear at the girls.

The pair had difficulty making headway against their opponent until Marianne realised the directing intelligence of the witch was the baby, not the woman. Changing their line of attack, they aimed at and succeeded in destroying the baby, whereupon the witch uttered a last, drawn-out moan and collapsed into dust.

After Tamara finished purifying her soul gem, they threw the contaminated grief seed into the Isolation hospital. Then they stopped at a restaurant for a lunch that, Tamara declared happily while Marianne was settling the bill, cost more than what she could make in three months.

Marianne and Tamara steadily worked eastward towards the Whangpoo River. In a narrow alley behind the Concession market they faced and vanquished another witch, a gigantic suckling-pig with burning eyes attended by sentient, blazing joss-sticks. Close by the Nanking Theatre, they harvested a grief seed from a blue-faced Chinese demon in traditional battle-dress. Finally, abroad a pleasure barge tethered to the riverbank, they destroyed a ghostly ship bearing an osmanthus tree guarded by a flock of white, _fanged_ rabbits.

* * *

As a result of their exertions over the day Marianne's soul gem was washed completely clean, while Tamara's shone more clearly than it had for months.

"This should last me for a while," Tamara said, holding her soul gem up against the setting sun as they strolled along the Bund.

"It had better," Marianne replied. "I shan't be able to slip out like this until next week at the earliest."

"One week…" Tamara turned her soul gem back into a necklace. "Marianne," she said after a pause. "We can't continue on like this."

"Yes."

"As you grow older the time we can spend together will become less and less."

"Yes."

"Your duties and obligations to your family will only increase."

"Yes."

"Even now you are late for your father's gala at the Canidrome Ballroom, where the young Comte Augustin is no doubt pining longingly for you."

Marianne flushed. "He can pine or not pine, as he pleases; but he is betrothed to my sister, not me!"

"If not him, someone else. The point, my princess, remains," Tamara said, sadly. "We can't be together forever."

"I know." Marianne looked away. "But what else can we do?"

"Renege your contract." Tamara suddenly gripped Marianne's hand. "You can. You can! Your butler's family is devoted to your household. Convince his daughter to take your place – make her wish for your soul to be returned – she loves you too, she'll agree –"

Marianne snatched her hand away. "What about you?"

"I'll die fighting a witch. Or turn into one. It's going to happen anyway!"

"Don't say that!"

Only the uppermost rim of the sun remained above the horizon.

"Don't cry, princess. Don't cry." Tamara awkwardly patted the back of Marianne's head. "Listen," she said at last. "I have a friend. Hopeless heroin addict." Marianne somehow managed to hiccup derisorily. "Yes, yes, I know. I could get her to wish my soul back for me, for a dose of the drug. I can present the line to her as practice for a play, or something. She's not very bright. Even when she's sober. Which she never is, now. She'll do it. And the Incubator will go along with anything that claims him one more soul."

"What will you do afterwards?" was the response from somewhere against her chest.

"Oh, you know," Tamara said wearily. "Fall into opium addiction, prostitution, debauchery and an early death. There are no happily-ever-afters in the world for us, princess."

Marianne turned her face upward. A few tears clung on her lashes. Tamara fought back an urge to lean down and kiss them away. "We could elope."

"You are very funny, princess."

"I'm serious. Australia. New Zealand. Canada. Somewhere far away, where everyone minds their own business."

"Australia…" Tamara murmured. "My father always wanted us to go there."

"Oh! Your father." Marianne reddened. "We could bring him with us, of course…" She trailed off. They both knew that was impossible.

"I'll think about it," Tamara said eventually. "Thank you, princess. But for now it would not do to keep your prince at the Canidrome waiting."

"You're my prince, Tamara Nochitskaya, and no one else." Marianne leaned forward and brushed her lips lightly against Tamara's. Then she turned and ran off, her ears and neck glowing red from more than just the dying sun.

Tamara remained by the quayside, fingertips gently resting on her lips. She gazed into the sunset absently, as though at a mirage, brilliant and distinct, that shimmered just out of reach.


	4. Chapter 4

Chandeliers, cold and brilliant, glittered on the roof. Waiters in starched suits glided about with an air of quiet importance. Faintly, the opening strains of a waltz drifted over the distant murmur of polite conversation.

"You disappeared for the whole day! Where did you go?"

"Out," said Marianne absently, "and about."

"Please don't vanish like that again, my child. We were all so worried."

 _About your jobs_. She tugged impatiently at her dress. "Aren't we done yet?"

"Almost, almost." Her nurse continued bustling around her. "Tonight your father wants you to look perfect. Can you guess why?" She seemed rather put out when Marianne did not reply. "Is something outside the window, dear?"

"Only a city called Shanghai." Marianne tore her gaze away. After her afternoon's sojourn into the slums, whorehouses and opium dens, the light and luxury around her somehow felt more surreal than the labyrinths of the witches she fought there.

"Shun it, that's my advice. Nothing good ever comes out of there." She dusted a few imaginary specks of dust from Marianne's shoulders. "Now you _are_ perfect. Look, here comes old Jacques to tell us to make ready. It's time for your grand entrance, my child."

"Why? They're announcing my sister's marriage. It hasn't anything to do with me."

"I know, my child, I know." Jacques, the venerable butler to house Labelle, was already leading Marianne down the curved staircase, and she had to crane her neck to see her nurse beaming at her. "And good luck!" her nurse called out behind her, somewhat inconsequentially, Marianne thought.

Then the Canidrome Ballroom opened up before her.

* * *

Gleaming with affluence, the expansive ballroom gathered together that night all the good and great of Shanghai. Near the banquet table, the head of the Concession police talked quietly with a captain of the notorious Green Gang; over glasses of wine, merchants with worried faces discussed trade in North China in light of worsening tensions with Japan; fat jovial presidents of stock exchanges swapped tips on bodyguards, security, and, in the event that these did not prevail, how to drive a good bargain on one's ransom with kidnappers.

A stillness descended on the gathering as Marianne came down the stairs. Her father walked towards her, arm outstretched, "This is my daughter Marianne." She curtsied, and only after another breath of silence did conversation gradually, almost reluctantly, resume.

As the daughter of the host Marianne knew her duty. She stood close by her father with her sister, speaking with the guests that her father deemed important enough to introduce. While her sister behaved impeccably – she was pleasant, witty, polite and attentive – Marianne's absent, faraway air lent her beauty an unworldly charm that drew the attention of all around her; and when the floor was declared open there was no dearth of admirers asking her for a dance.

Marianne's first dance was given to the Concession police chief, an old family friend whose good side all businessmen operating in the Concession found indispensable to be on. After that she must have had switched partners several times, because she eventually found herself waltzing with the Comte Augustin, who gazed at her throughout with an ardent intensity she found quite discomfiting but not wholly unpleasant. To distract herself she tried to eavesdrop on the snatches of dialogues of the people dancing around her.

"…was found floating on the wharf…"

"…and so she divorced, _again_ …"

"…arranged his own kidnapping…"

"…princess? Can you hear me, princess?..."

"…disappeared around Marco Polo Bridge…"

"…Princess!"

Marianne started. "Is there something wrong?" Augustin asked, his face a picture of concern.

"No, no, I mean, yes, I don't feel very well, please excuse me…" Mumbling indistinctly, she slipped away, leaving a bewildered Augustin staring open-mouthed behind her. She could hardly care. Her heart pounded in fierce delight, and a smile lit up her face for the first time that night.

* * *

 _Princess? I'm at the garden._

 _So am I_ , Marianne relayed back. _I don't see you_.

A figure emerged from behind a tree and approached her tentatively. For a moment Marianne thought it was a straggler from a fancy dress party wearing a white mink coat. Then she laughed and flung her arms around Tamara, wondering at the tears that stung the corners of her eyes.

The white mink coat detached itself from Tamara's shoulder and leapt onto the ground. "I have fulfilled your request, Tamara Nochitskaya," it said. "If there is no other service I can render…"

"Go on, you frightful old Mephistopheles," Tamara laughed, nudging it with her foot. For a heartbeat the Incubator lingered, unnoticed, watching their embrace with its unblinking red eyes. Then it nodded to itself, and disappeared into the night.

"What are you doing here?" Marianne asked when she got her breath back. "And what on earth are you wearing?"

"You don't like it?" Tamara straightened herself awkwardly. "It's my father's old uniform, from the Life Guards regiment. I wanted to see if it fits."

"It fits," Marianne said softly, tugging at the uniform. "It fits very well. Why did you want to see if it fits?"

"Because I want to dance with you wearing it." Tamara offered an embarrassed grin. "My mother – used to say that was how father made her fall in love with…"

Marianne interrupted her with a kiss. It was chaste at first, and sweet, but slowly and surely it deepened into something fierce and hungry and passionate, until their breaths grew ragged and caught in their throats.

From the hotel the old waltz faded away and a new one struck up. Marianne gently broke their embrace and took a step back. She held out a hand, palm up. "May I have the honour of the next dance?"

Tamara bowed gravely. "It would be my pleasure."

In the darkling garden shade, under the soft summer stars, the two girls danced, with the light, quiet grace of unspoken intimacy. Time turned into a river of sweet crystal moments of perfect joy that found expression in Marianne's eyes, in her lips, in her heart, and she thought in a sudden flash that to experience such happiness was surely worth ten thousand years of Purgatory.

All too soon the music faded, and their dance slowed and stopped. The soft wind carried frantic voices from the hotel.

"I think they are looking for you." Tamara leaned down and kissed Marianne softly. "Goodbye, my princess."

"Goodbye," Marianne whispered. She turned around and with a backward glance hurried back towards the hotel.

* * *

Marianne returned to a scene of utter commotion. At the centre of the hall her sister sobbed quietly, while Comte Augustin glared at the floor, his face white and obstinately set. Their fathers, meanwhile, stood exchanging knowing, resigned looks with each other.

Everyone turned to look at her as she came in. "Ah, so our heroine deigns to grace the stage at last," her father sighed.

"What's going on, father?"

"Young Augustin here," his father Rene clapped him on the shoulder, "declares that he intends to marry you, or not marry at all. He is most insistent in this regard, and will not be convinced otherwise."

Her father raised his eyes and shrugged. "The young will be young."

"So it seems." Rene spread his hands. "It appears that we have no choice but to oblige him."

At this the young man swung around, his eyes wild. "Father! Do you mean…?"

"Kindly take your hands off my shirt, young fellow. Your bride-to-be is over there."

At this Augustine turned to stare at Marianne. Slowly, as if in a trance, he walked towards her. She backed away. "Don't…" she protested weakly. "I already…I mean," she said in a flash of inspiration, "I can't get married before my elder sister!"

"Your sister is a lovely young lady who certainly has no shortage of suitors," Rene said. "Of course, it is entirely proper that your betrothal to my son not be, er, consummated before your sister's marriage is settled," he added as an afterthought.

"Come now, Monsieur Augustine is not a bad-looking young man! Surely you don't have much objections?" As her father said this Marianne realised that he did not care in the least which sister his future son-in-law would marry, and she seemed to hear her grandfather's dry, rasping voice whisper from far away and long ago, _We Labelles do not marry suitors, we marry alliances_.

"Just like the old King-Emperor," someone whispered piercingly. Another voice hissed back, just as audibly, "What an ill-omened thing to say!"

"Marianne," Augustine said as he drew nearer to her, "I've been in love with you for a very long time. I've always looked at you, and I have cause to believe that you may also not be entirely indifferent to me. Please," he held out his hands, "will you give me the chance to make you happy?"

Marianne tried to protest. She parted her lips, but her mind was blank and no sound came out. Perhaps sensing her intention differently, Augustin drew her into an embrace and pressed his lips against hers. Her body turned hot and limp in his embrace, and she felt herself returning the kiss. _What am I doing?_ a part of her mind recoiled in horror, but another, quite distinct, part thought, _He is very handsome. And also very rich_.

In the shocked silence that followed some idiot somewhere raised a cheer. It almost died away when another idiot took it up, and then another; and soon the ballroom was filled with shouts, whistles and cheers.

"May I hope that you would accept?" Augustin asked, his eyes glittering.

"I…" Marianne began. Before she could finished a sharp, splintering sound cut through the ballroom. She blinked and looked around wildly.

"There!" someone shouted. "That window shattered, look!"

Marianne did, and for a brief instant she thought she caught a flash of red. _No_. An elderly Chinese gentlemen darted her a sideways glance and mumbled into his long beard. _No_. Her head filled with the loud, relentless beating of her heart. _No_.

"Don't worry." Augustin turned back to her. "It is just some vandal. There is nothing to be afraid of, everything is fine. Are you all right? You look very pale. Do you want to rest somewhere for a while? Can you hear me, Marianne? _Marianne?_ Marianne!"


End file.
